


We Hold These Truths To Be Self-Evident

by fables



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Hip Hop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 20:10:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5104199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fables/pseuds/fables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hamilton tries to keep his head down, he really does. The fiasco with the Bursar's Office had almost cost him his scholarship, and maybe Burr is right, and there is something to be said for talking less?</p><p>Though fuck that smiling shit, he isn't a clown.</p><p>And the pendejo Bursar had totally had it coming. What was wrong with taking nine classes a semester, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Hold These Truths To Be Self-Evident

Hamilton tries to keep his head down, he really does. The fiasco with the Bursar's Office had almost cost him his scholarship, and maybe Burr is right, and there is something to be said for talking less?

Though fuck that smiling shit, he isn't a clown.

And the pendejo Bursar had totally had it coming. What was wrong with taking nine classes a semester, anyway?

He avoids the internet, because people are always so stupid on it. Spends his morning writing essays for others. It's his main source of income. He wouldn't even be able to afford food on the work-study hours they give him, let alone rent. There are programs now that check for plagiarism, but he's versatile, and has gotten very good at imitating jock-speak, and then turning that just a level higher. The professors and TAs don't even suspect.

He and Hercules text back and forth to set up a time to work on the latest tracks. Hercules is a musical genius; Hamilton doesn't think there's an instrument out there that he can't play, and his compositions are mind-blowing. And the grind's much less grinding when they're doing it together.

He goes to his Topology class, Bio Lab, then spends a moment hovering outside the doorway to Transition and Development Economics, taking deliberate breaths. He can do this. It might be one of the hardest things he's ever done, but he is _Alexander Hamilton_ , and he can do anything he puts his mind to doing.

Fortified, he steps into the classroom.

Sits in the back, takes out his notebook and BIC pen. His shoulders tense when Professor Lee comes in with a cheerful "Good morning, my bright young students!", but he keeps his head down. Keeps working on the lyrics, even when the _stupidest shit_ this side of the Atlantic flows like diarrhea out the professor's mouth. Seriously, is he deliberately doing this? Hamilton doesn't remember anything this bad before, even when they were talking about the former Soviet bloc countries. He's actually claiming that India's Green Revolution was a _good thing_.

Half an hour passes, and it doesn't let up. Hamilton's half-convinced that behind the smooth-as-silk professor facade, Lee's actually a huge troll. But the rest of the classroom's watching him like they always do, as if he's a Prophet of God revealing the New Commandments. Never mind Gujarat's farmer suicide epidemic, Punjab's increasingly infertile soil, the explosive cancer rates. Would the _entire population_ have to die out before they realized there was a problem?

Though sometimes Hamilton thinks, that's what they want, that's how they're getting rid of the problem.

But whatever. Whatever! Hamilton's not getting into another argument; he's here to work on his _flow_. He needs to change it up for the next track. Hercules pointed out that for this arrangement, something sparser than what he usually does, with more pauses, would be better.

But God, Lee keeps saying the _stupidest shit_. This isn't an education; it's attempted brainwashing. Why else would he weigh attendance so heavily?

Next time, Hamilton's taking his cue from Hercules and bringing earphones.

 

The moment the clock hand hits the hour, Hamilton's fleeing out the door. _He's made it._ And there's nothing else that day that he has to worry about, he's just going to get something to eat, pull in a few hours in the library, and then work with Hercules on getting a track ready for Saturday's open mic night.

There's a Black Lives Matter poster hung on the bulletin board inside the dining hall. Hamilton always looks at it, because it announces that Washington is coming to speak, and Washington is amazing. His organization was one of the first to endorse Cullors and Garza and Tometi after the hashtag went viral. Every time he posts anything he gets a swarm of trolls and hate mails and death threats, he's totally got the police gunning for him, must've been arrested _hundreds_ of times, and he's still rolling with it, getting back up and _fighting_.

And then there was that prime time interview when he'd talked about the Civil Rights Movement, which his parents played a major part in. All the strategizing and coalition building that involved, and how they need to do that again. Because it's all connected, neoliberal capitalization and the wars on terror and drugs, their increasingly xenophobic immigration policies and police brutality and, well. Things such as -- and this said in the mildest voice, with the most benign, understanding of smiles on Washington's friendlier-than-Santa-and-your-cookie-baking-grandma-combined face -- Washington being the only associated activist the show's ever invited on, when the movement's in its second year now, and police brutality has been an issue since the country's founding. Hasn't it?

Hamilton's listened to it more times than he can count, he gets so buzzed on it, the same way that he gets buzzed on Colliers' speeches. These people are _fearless_ , and don't hesitate to spit _truth_. And in a few years, once the stupid bursar lets him graduate, Hamilton's going to be just like them, leading the revolution from the _front lines_.

And maybe even staying here another year won't be so bad, because in just two months, Hamilton gets to see Washington _in person_. Hamilton can hardly believe it; he has to look at the poster every day to make sure it's still here.

It's still there today. Except Black has been crossed out. _White not n*****_ penned in beside it.

For a moment Hamilton's vision blurs. He sways. Takes a deep breath, then reaches out to rip it down.

Stops, hand on the poster. Fingers the crossed out _Black_ , the added annotations, heart beating like it does on stage before a battle. Narrows his eyes, stepping back. Takes several pictures, then steps back further. Starts a timer on his phone, then switches to its camera again. Holds it ready to take in the reactions of all the students that flow by.

It takes 28 minutes and 37 seconds, by which time exactly 124 students -- 53 that glance at it, or bring it to their friends' attention, or sanctimoniously shake their heads, or _laugh_ \-- walk past without doing anything. 28 minutes and 37 seconds before one comes back with an administrator and it's finally taken it down. And when was that shit first penned in, how long did it stand there before Hamilton came across it, before he was ambushed? _How long?_

 _Fuck that shit_. If they think Hamilton's just going to roll over and take it, _they've got another thing coming_.

 

For once, the school newspaper actually accepts his letter. That's good; it saves him from exploiting the hack that one of Hercules' friends showed him. The newspaper's system.config file can be requested by _anyone_ , and contains usernames and passwords needed to access everything.

They really should fire their database designer. Maybe he'll even tell them, because the very next day, his letter's there. Though the faces in the accompanying pictures are blurred, so maybe not.

It goes viral. It's not until after the open mic night, when most of the people coming up don't ask about the music, but whether he's _that_ Alexander Hamilton, the one who took the pictures, and did he know any of the people in them?, that he realizes just how viral.

Before, he'd always been thoroughly, consistently ignored.

 

He notices her when he's packing up after Music Theory. She walked in sometime after the class ended, and is now standing next to the lecture podium, laughing at something the professor's telling her. He's not the only one staring at them.

It would be hard not to notice Angelica Schuyler. Everyone on campus knows, or knows about, the stunningly beautiful and stunningly rich Schuyler sisters. Even Hamilton, who deliberately hears about nothing, has heard about them, because Hercules is a big fan of the parties they throw in their just off-campus penthouse. It's where he gets his regular supply of pot from, because no matter how loud the parties get or how much shit goes down, the police never show.

But even if she hadn't been one of the most famous people on campus, Hamilton would still have noticed her. With her delicate features, flawless dark skin and stunning smile, Angelica's the second most beautiful woman Hamilton's ever seen, behind only his mother.

The professor leaves the classroom, and Angelica's gaze shifts to _him_.

She starts to walk forward, but it goes slowly. It seems like every other person reaches out to stop her with something they have to share immediately. Hamilton settles back into his chair, taking out his ipod.

The class has mostly cleared, and Hamilton's gone through three tracks on Kool G Rap's debut solo album, by the time she finally makes it to him.

"So, you're Alexander Hamilton," she says, pushing back his desk and sitting on it. She's wearing a thin lavender shirt that clings in all the right places. Her arms are bare, her left hand loosely holding a sheaf of papers, nails painted purple. Her skirt is red and slit at one end, her long legs swing slightly, delicate silver anklets tinkling, sandals dangling off her toes. She smells as amazing as she looks.

"At your service," Hamilton says, pulling his earbuds out, giving her his best smile. " _Completely_. Is there anything I can do for you?"

A brief furrow appears between her eyes as she peers down at him. "I was expecting someone older. And, um. You seem a bit. Scrawny? Small?"

Hamilton's smile grows strained. "Appearances can be _deceiving_." Why doesn't anyone take him seriously, just because he's a _bit_ younger? And then, " _Whatever_ , I have no intention of further reinforcing hegemonic, oppressive hierarchies by engaging in banter that reinforces the sort of toxic masculinity that --"

She laughs. He stops, frowning at her.

"Oh, this is going to be so much more fun than I was expecting. Here," taking a paper out of the bundle, and leaning forward to push it against his stomach.

It's a flyer about an inaugural meeting of the Coalition for Social Change? A joint effort by the Center for Multicultural Affairs, Black Student Alliance, Asian American Student Alliance, Gates Millenium Scholars, Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc, and the list goes on and on, his eyes glazing from trying to pick them all out, and did Angelica come specifically to give him this?

Hamilton looks up, skeptical. "You couldn't come up with a better name than that?"

"Oh hon, don't even get me started. It took hours to decide on a name that everyone could agree with, and even then it was only because Eliza spiked Connor's -- that's the representative from the Multicultural League -- Pepsi with ZzzQuil, and he was too busy sleeping to vote against anything. We might _still_ be arguing names otherwise, you _don't want to know_."

Hamilton blinks. Makes a note to never leave his drinks, or anything else, untended when the Schuyler sisters are around. "So. You want me to come to this? No problem, this is great, I am all for social change." Mentally shuffles through his calendar. "I'll come as much as I can, though probably not every Thursday. I'm in this online hip-hop battle league and sometimes --"

"Oh no, baby. You're the only one of us who _has_ to be there at every meeting. You're the face of it."

"What? No, I am _not_." He has a very good memory; he would _know_. "I'd never heard of you guys until today. I didn't even know half these organizations existed." Though he should probably fix that. They know too much about him, while he knows nothing. It's one of the prices of fame, he knows; and it's always referred to in the most heavy and ominous undertones. But now that he's finally experiencing it, it's not that bad?

"Yeah, sorry. I meant to hunt you down yesterday, but something came up. Anyway, you're the only one that everyone could agree on? The AKAs wouldn't have joined if either Eliza or I were leading, and those bitches are vicious and can _not_ be trusted, it was all we could do to block _their_ bid for presidency. There's mega-bad blood between the Asian American Student Alliance and the Queer Pride Graduate Student Association -- I think Wesley hooked up with Aamir before booking it back into the closet, though you didn't hear it from me, and everyone knows Raph wants to be hooking up with Aamir, so you can imagine how awkward" -- and Hamilton's increasing bewilderment must show on his face, because she pauses. Backtracks. "Wesley's president of the first, Raph just got elected president of the second after Leslie decided she was going to take a year off to find herself." The last two words with air quotes, and all of it with a you-really-should-know-this tone. "So, that's those two. And Keisha's graduating this year and can barely manage her schedule, let alone another presidency, and just, _trust me_. You were the best option available."

" _How_? Besides the editorial, no one knows who I am." He posts a lot in his blog -- he can't stop writing, Hercules calls it a compulsion -- but no one reads it.

Angelica blinks slowly. "Well, _yeah_. That's kinda the point? Your editorial was great, so everyone knew your name. No one knew you personally, so there were no grudges." _Yet_ , her amused eyes seem to say.

Hamilton looks down at the organizations that voted him president by fiat, no input from him required.

Then looks closer.

"I'm suppose to be heading a Coalition for Social Change," Hamilton says carefully, "that has among its members the Ping Pong Leisure Club and the Basketball Team."

"Every movement for social change needs muscle," -- again in the voice that heavily implies that Hamilton's being stupid. God, what is it with her? Hamilton's _never_ stupid -- "and Li Ying wanted to join, but his ping pong club meetings were at the same time."

"Muscle? What? What exactly are you planning here?" And it _is_ her; he hasn't known her for ten minutes and still he has no doubt.

"You know all the racist, homophobic, transphobic bullshit that's been going down on campus lately, right?" And of course Hamilton does. He couldn't have missed it if he tried, and he had. "It's time to hold the administration accountable, baby, and make sure it stops." And her dark eyes, utterly serious now, are promising much more than this. They're promising to make whoever stands in her way _pay_.

"Oh. _Oh._ " She's utterly perfect _in every way_. He'd get on his knee and propose right now, if he thought there was any chance she'd say yes. And then, with narrowed eyes, " _How_ , exactly?"

And that's how Hamilton becomes the President of the Coalition for Social Change.

 

Hamilton's first act as president is a motion to change the Coalition's name. He spends his entire Econ class thinking up alternatives, some that he's quite proud of. Almost doesn't notice Lee's increasingly stupid lecture. _Almost._

He works on it sporadically through the rest of the day, whenever he has a moment, until evening comes around, heralding the Coalition's inaugural meeting. After introductions are completed -- and they take so long that even Hamilton's excellent memory is strained from the continuous, constant barrage of names and associations -- Hamilton proudly unveils his list to others. It's such a relief to be here after Lee's class, to finally let down his guard, because these are people like him. This is just the first step, and together, they will stop at _nothing_ , not until things are finally _fixed_. And they need a better name than the one they currently have, one that captures all of that.

Then he watches, with widening eyes, as the meeting degenerates with a speed and viciousness that puts barroom brawls to shame.

He can barely follow half the things they're fighting about. A sub-coalition led by the Asian American Student Alliance and African American Student Alliance faces off against one headed by the Asian Cultural Club and the International Students' Club, over something about how calling them all persons of color is American oppression, isn't it enough that they're already bombing their countries and destroying their economies and poisoning their populations, but of course it isn't, of course now they want to take away their very identities and flatten them to incoherent pulps before stamping the mess with pre-approved American-centric labels; a representative of the First Nations Students Association bursts into tears and flees the room with a _I'm so sorry guys, I know you didn't mean to upset me, but there's been a lot happening recently and I need just a minute_ at the mention of Indians-with-forehead-dots and Indians-with-feathers; there are papers flying and books and pizza boxes being thrown and several points simultaneously pontificated in increasingly loud and heated pontifications as the first sub-coalition splinters even further with a -- "I am SO TIRED of having to tell you _over and over_ , you refer to me as _they_ or _them_ , not _her_ , GOD, it's like you've never heard of intersectionality, like only _your_ oppression matters and the rest of us can go _fuck ourselves_ " -- as Angelica watches it all with increasingly narrowed and smug eyes, _I_ told _you so_ written clearly all over her face.

And when Hamilton just stares at her, utterly lost -- she _has_ to do something before someone is _murdered_ \-- Angelica leans back with a _you started this, genius,_ you _figure it out_.

A police siren blares, and everyone stops. The ping pong ball that some ping pong and basketball players were tossing around like a football rolls to Hamilton's feet, and he almost jumps out of his skin.

The siren turns off, and Hamilton's brain slowly comes back online.

It came from the laptop of a mousy-haired, thickset Asian dude who looks like an accountant. Hamilton vaguely recalls him saying that he's with the Ping Pong Leisure Club.

"I think we've reached a unanimous agreement that the name should remain Coalition for Social Change," he says into the complete and utter silence. "Can someone tell Anne it's safe to come back? No, not you Sonya. I should have specified, someone who won't be a troll and bring up indian-with-feathers again. Thanks Nassim." All without having looked up from his laptop even _once_. Even the speed of his typing remains constant throughout. "Now, what's next on the agenda?"

Next on the agenda is Hamilton's second act as President of the Coalition for Social Change. Friedrich Wilhelm August Heinrich Ferdinand von Steuben -- and of course he was unphased by what happened, having dealt with _that_ name his entire life -- a.k.a. _just call me Fred_ , is appointed Secretary, in charge of setting the agenda and everything else involved with the running of the meetings.

That resolution also passes with unanimous agreement.


End file.
